


If We Shadows

by Drag0nst0rm



Series: The Lost Ones [2]
Category: NCIS
Genre: Asthma attack, Gen, Kid Fic, ghost au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-08-08 05:14:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7744699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drag0nst0rm/pseuds/Drag0nst0rm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ghosts are only supposed to attack other people. People far away who make stupid mistakes. </p>
<p>But the world rarely works the way the way it's supposed to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If We Shadows

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own NCIS. Nor do I own Shakespeare, from which the title comes. Yes, it's really, really out of context. No, I don't care. Much.
> 
> These one-shots are leading up to a longish multi-chapter fic, so if you're enjoying them, keep an eye out for it.
> 
> WARNING: There's a (possibly medically inaccurate) asthma attack in this fic.

Camp Rocket Rocks wasn't built on an old burial ground. There wasn't a forgotten cemetery hiding in the woods that surrounded the ring of cabins. No battles had been fought on the hill where they studied trajectories via handmade catapults. Despite what the horror movies seemed to think, no one was actually that stupid.

And it was a camp for nerds. Maybe it wasn't that computer camp that Tim had wanted to go to, but a camp where they studied trajectories and math and where they had long hikes while counselors talked about the scientific classification of each tree, was definitely for nerds, and nerds did stuff like mix up packets of salt and chemicals from their chemistry sets because they'd read a new recipe for ghost bombs in the latest issue of Cool Science and they wanted to try it out.

Except when they said, "Try it out," what they meant was, "See whose salt pack would travel the farthest, which had the biggest spread of salt spray out of it, and which looked coolest." Because there was no way they would see any actual ghosts. That sort of thing only happened when people were stupid, and these kids had been called a lot of things, _(nerd, geek, weird, pathetic, weak, disappointment)_ , but stupid had never been one of them.

Eventually, everyone learns that no matter how smart or careful you are, bad things sometimes still happen.

But they were kids. They didn't know that yet.

 

When the bank robbery went wrong, and fifteen people died, including the robbers and two police officers, no one at Camp Rocket Rocks knew anything about it. There weren't any televisions in the camp, and although there were phones, no one thought to call them.

It was only after more police officers arrived on the scene and they realized that most of those people had died _after_ the robbers did that they realized they might have a problem on their hands.

 

Camp Rocket Rocks hadn't been Tim's first choice of camp, but the hiking made his dad happy and at least it wasn't a sports camp.

Plus, here he was one of the older kids which meant he got to impress the younger kids with his superior knowledge.

Most of his cabin mates had gone down to the lake to cool off, but Tim had stayed in the cabin. The flowers on the walk down to the lake always made him sneeze.

Besides, this wasn't so bad. Three of the younger kids had crept into the cabin with a box full of frogs they had planned on releasing. Tim could have just scared them off, but he'd been working on building himself a new computer, and what was the point of doing that if you couldn't show off a bit?

He wiped the sweat from his face and sat down on the counselor's bed next to his walkie-talkie. He wasn't sure where Mr. Ben had gotten off to. He was probably at the lake making sure no one did anything stupid.

Three eager faces looked up at him from where they'd sat down on the concrete floor. He grinned at them.

"Okay, so the first thing you need to do is this . . . "

 

The problem with hunting ghosts was that they could be almost anywhere. They could have curled up into a tiny space no human could fit in. They could have gone so transparent it was impossible to see them. They could have hitched a ride in any vehicle, gone in any direction.

That was why no one called the camp when the four bank robbers started heading that direction in a stolen car.

No one knew.

 

Tim was just getting into an enthusiastic explanation when the walkie-talkie beside him went off. The words were accompanied by bursts of static that made them hard to understand, but what he thought they said was, "Hey, was someone supposed to be coming to pick their kid up early? Because - "

There was more static and then nothing. Tim frowned. All the other messages he'd heard on the walkie-talkie had ended in "over".

He shrugged it off and kept talking.

 

There was a gate at the entrance to Camp Rocket Rocks to stop cars from just driving in and a few emergency salt packs hanging by the fire extinguishers, but those were pretty much the only nods to security they had. This was a kids' camp, for crying out loud. They were far more worried about horseplay near the lake than they were about four blood mad ghosts rolling up in a stolen car and getting out.

There had been a practice drill for a ghost attack in the day before the kids got up there, but it was like the fire drill. You had to do it, sure, but it wasn't something you'd ever actually have to know. They'd been thinking about lunch, not memorizing where the salt packs were.

Well, most of the counselors hadn't been. Seth Patton had been an exception to that rule, because Seth Patton's grandfather had raised him to believe that paranoia and common sense were interchangeable words.

But Seth Patton was in the mess hall. By the time he figured out what was going on, three people were already dead.

 

"Code White! Code White, over! Does anybody read me? Code White, come in!"

The words were hissed and garbled by static, but Tim froze anyway.

The younger kids stopped babbling questions and looked at the walkie-talkie.

"It's a drill, right?" Martin asked.

Tim stared at the walkie-talkie. It vibrated and went off again.

"Seth, what's going on? Over."

"Is this a drill? Over."

"Get me more salt! Now!"

That last one sounded more like someone had accidentally hit the button than that they were sending a message over.

"Yeah, it's a drill," Tim said. The words sounded like they were coming from someone else. "We should - We should probably get into position, though."

They all looked at each other uncertainly.

"Where were we supposed to go again?" Calvin finally asked.

Tim couldn't remember. He couldn't think, he had to think -

Useless, he could hear his father scoff.

Here was his big chance to make his dad proud.

"Get in the tubs," he blurted out.

"What?" Martin asked, face crinkling up.

"The plastic tubs everyone brought their stuff in. Get in." Ghosts could sense heat, couldn't they? If they could, then the tubs wouldn't help, but it was worth a shot.

"Oh, come on," Calvin complained. "Everyone's been sticking their dirty laundry in there for a week. Those things stink worse than my sister's boyfriend."

"Yeah, well, live with it," Tim said, trying to sound firm. He walked over to the closest one and yanked the lid off. It was dark green, impossible to see through, and there was enough space for one of the boys to get in if he pulled out a few things. He threw them on the floor and grabbed Martin's arm. "In."

Martin was a wiry little kid, and Tim was an asthmatic who needed to lose a few pounds according to his gym teacher, but the kid got in. Tim put the lid back on but kept it cracked so that the kid could breathe.

The walkie-talkie was still going off. Tim's head was too full of white noise to listen to it. He grabbed Calvin and dragged him over to the next box. The kid squirmed a bit, but he got in, still complaining, and pinching his nose for good measure.

All of the rest of the boxes were see through. Tim looked around wildly before pulling a sleeping bag off of one of the bunk beds. "I'll cover you," he promised the last kid. Gavin, wasn't it?

Gavin was looking at him with a look in his eyes that was way too knowing for a second grader. "This isn't a drill, is it?"

"What makes you think that?" Tim panted. Man, it was hot.

"We have tornado drills at my school," Gavin informed him. "Sometimes we have them when it's storming outside and the teachers have been checking the news a lot." He frowned. "I'm pretty sure the teachers think we're idiots."

"It's probably not a drill," Tim admitted. "Please get in?"

Gavin nodded and climbed in. "Who's going to put the lid on for you?"

Tim hadn't thought of that. "I'll figure something out." He left the lid cracked and then threw the sleeping bag over the tub.

That worked from one side. What about the other?

He grabbed another sleeping bag and draped it over the other end. The effect didn't look quite natural, but maybe ghosts weren't that smart. Or maybe they'd just assume the boys were slobs.

His grandmother had told him to never count on maybes, but Tim couldn't think what else what to do.

"I've got one cornered but the other three are roaming loose, over!" Mr. Seth yelled through the walkie-talkie.

Tim crept over to get it. Should he keep it close to listen for updates? Turn it off so that no one would hear? Plant it as a decoy somewhere else?

They'd had drills for this in school, but most of them came down to, "Stay behind your teacher and do as you're told."

Except in this situation, Tim was the teacher, and he started breathing a little too fast just thinking about it.

 

Seth Patton knew where the salt packs were, and he knew how to use them.

But when ghosts have had that much blood, it can take a lot to take them down. And when there were four of them . . .

He'd nailed one by tossing a pack through a window of the mess hall, and he'd keep throwing salt until they stopped writhing and disappeared.

He couldn't do much about the three that had kept running, though. Not until this one was gone.

"They're heading to the cabins, over," he warned. "Who's with the kids over there?"

He didn't like the sound of that silence.

 

Tim peeked out the screened window in an attempt to see what was going on.

He hadn't counted on one of the ghosts seeing him right back.

One of them was drifting towards the lake. The other two started heading towards his cabin.

You idiot, he could hear his father hiss.

_Okay, okay, um . . ._

They knew he was here. They didn't know anyone else was.

Tim yanked the door open and took off running for one of the hiking trails. By the time he got to the start of it, he had a stitch in his side and he was already wheezing.

Running wasn't one of his strong suits.

He glanced back.

The ghosts were shooting after him.

Tim took in another wheezing breath and kept running.

Brilliant, he told himself savagely as he ran, absolutely brilliant. Run in the direction where there's no help, no salt, no iron -

He tripped on a tree root, but he didn't fall. He couldn't fall.

It was getting really, really hard to breathe.

\- and no inhaler.

This sort of thing wasn't supposed to happen. It was supposed to happen to strangers, to people who were stupid or careless, not here, not to him -

_Breathe, breathe, breathe, don't cry, crying's for babies and it won't help you breathe -_

He tripped again, and this time he fell. He could feel the skin on his knees tear. He pushed himself to his feet, but he could barely stand, much less run. His muscles were burning. His dad wouldn't be proud of that at all.

He could hear the ghosts coming. He had to keep running. He stumbled forward a few more steps. There was a creek just past those bushes. Maybe it could hide his body heat. Maybe he could hide. Catch his breath.

Something hit him in the back. Something that just kept coming, sliding through him, and now he really couldn't breathe and his whole body was screaming, screaming, screaming -

But he couldn't scream. His mouth just flopped open like a stupid fish. Something ripped out of him again, and he fell half onto the path, half onto the bushes.

Tim sobbed, but it felt weird. Different. Everything did.

He needed help, but the ghosts were still there, so he just lay there, as still as he could.

He laid that way for a long, long time.

 

Seth Patton ended up taking down two of the ghosts that attacked. The police tracked down the other two.

Then it was time for roll call. Seth had to help with that, and he closed his eyes for a minute before he started, because he already knew that not everybody was there.

Some of the kids had just been hiding, it turned out. Hiding with salt packs, some of them.

Seth brushed the salt out of his face. "It's just me, Gavin."

Gavin peered over the top of his box cautiously. "Where's Tim?"

Seth's stomach sunk. "Tim?"

"Timothy McGee," Gavin said, like Seth didn't know who the kid was. "He was going to hide in one of the boxes."

He wasn't in any of the boxes.

He was on one of the hiking trails, and all Seth could think about were three ghosts running past him while he was safe in the mess hall.

He went to the funeral. Of course he did.

"Your son was brave," he told Admiral McGee.

Admiral McGee snorted. "It was typical of him. He had a great idea, but he didn't have what it took to pull it off."

Tim's grandmother looked about ready to slap him. Seth was kind of tempted to break his nose.

Maybe that was why when he saw the little boy with his face twisted up behind his father that no one else could see, he didn't turn him in.

It was dangerous and illegal and wrong, he knew. But it was hard to equate this pale, shivering figure with the red eyed monsters he'd fought the week before.

So he kept his mouth shut.

He figured he owed the kid that much.


End file.
